Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 120326 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 602(@200wpm)___ 481(@250wpm)___ 401(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 120326 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 602(@200wpm)___ 481(@250wpm)___ 401(@300wpm)
“Okay, just an orange juice for me.”
He gives me a brief nod and then walks away. God, there’s really no breaking his mood tonight. A young woman up on the stage is playing the piano and singing a ballad. When I’d imagined going to an open-mic night, I’d pictured some rock club full of kooky characters, but this place caters more to business workers having a drink after a long day of go-getting. I swallow hard, feeling my throat run slightly dry.
With shaking hands I manage to force myself through writing my name down on the piece of paper at the sign-up table. It costs ten pounds to take part, and I grudgingly hand over the money. What has the world come to when you have to pay to do something that could be potentially humiliating?
After being told that there are four performers ahead of me, I give the sound guy my CD, telling him to put it on track six. I spot Robert sitting in a booth a little away from the stage. He’s sipping on a glass of scotch, his eyes wandering disinterestedly about the room. The piano lady, dressed in black heels and a dark red, contoured dress, sings about love in the most generic way possible. My nerves build as I become more and more aware that this so isn’t the audience for me. People mostly talk over her, and when she’s done they give her a shitty, half-hearted round of applause.
“I’m not sure about this,” I say to Robert, sipping from my orange juice and then biting anxiously at my fingernails.
He manages to drag himself out of his dark humour long enough to squeeze my hand and tell me, “It’s the lead-up that’s the worst part. Once you’re doing it, you’ll be fine.”
“I hope you’re right,” I say, nudging him with my shoulder. “And will you please quit brooding about your dad? It’s not going to do you any good.”
“I’ll try,” he answers, breathing out a sigh and tracing his index finger in lazy circles over my thigh.
Suddenly, an idea springs into my head. I know the exact song to sing that will cheer Robert up. It’s one of my favourites, and even when I hated him I still used to think of him whenever I listened to it, however ironic that might have been.
“I have to do something,” I say. “I’ll be right back.”
Fifteen
Rushing to the back of the stage, I tell the sound guy to play track four instead of track six. I think I see him roll his eyes at my enthusiasm, but I ignore it and put it down to him being jaded with working at these crappy open-mic nights where you have to endure the good, the bad, and the ugly on a weekly basis.
I hurry back to the booth and sit down, my body pulsing with renewed energy. It’s odd how a song choice can be such a decider in whether or not you feel confident performing. Now that I’ve got the perfect song, I’m almost eager to get up there.
The next few performers do their thing, and even Robert seems to get a little excited. He keeps touching me softly in places that make me feel high on the contact and seductively telling me he can’t wait to hear me sing, while running a lock of my hair between his fingers. Soon enough, my name is being announced over the speakers, and I’m pulling my wooden box and drumstick from my bag. I see Robert eye both instruments with a mixture of amusement and curiosity.
My heart thumps loudly in my ears as I walk through the crowd and then up the steps onto the stage. Standing in front of the mic stand, I cough to clear my throat. Now that I’m singing for Robert and Robert only, I don’t care what anyone else in this place thinks of me.
“Hello,” I say, introducing myself. “My name’s Lana, and this song is called “Prince Charming” by Adam and the Ants. I’d like to dedicate it to my friend sitting in the audience over there.” I gesture to Robert, and he brings his hand up to his mouth, letting out a loud wolf whistle and then shouting up at me, “Boyfriend!”
I blush and laugh.
“Yeah, you’re a friend who’s a boy,” I joke back at him, forgetting the crowded bar for a moment.
He whistles again and then shouts, “Take it all off!”
Smirking, I lean into the mic. “Shush now.”
Robert falls back into his seat, a smile plastered across his face. The handful of people actually paying attention laugh at our interaction. Look at me, I actually can speak in front of a room full of people without spontaneously combusting. There’s hope for me to become a lecturer yet.
When the intro starts up, I lift my drumstick and begin beating it down on the box to match the rhythm of the song. Robert’s mouth tightens with suppressed laughter as I chant the opening part before launching into the first verse.
I focus my eyes on him when I sing, telling him not to ever stop being dandy, showing me he’s handsome, that ridicule is nothing to be scared of. I hope he gets my meaning that I’m talking about his dad. I’m only a couple of lines in when he loses control and his laughter flows out. It’s not the cruel kind, it’s the joyful kind. His eyes tear up, he’s laughing so hard, and he wipes at his cheeks with his fingers.
Soon he’s holding up his camera and snapping shots of me.
I sing for him to never lower himself, forgetting all his standards. I sing for him to respect himself and all of those around him. Soon his laughter dies down, and his face sobers as he really listens to what I’m telling him through the lyrics. His eyes heat up, making it look like he wants to drag me off the stage and into a secluded corner where he can do wicked things to me.